


we'll spend our Christmas playing wizard chess

by simply_kelp



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Gen, I'm ignoring all my issues with Molly Weasley for now, Weasley Family, the Dursleys are pretty crappy but we knew that already
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 10:03:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7098289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simply_kelp/pseuds/simply_kelp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry fidgets with his blankets, stares resolutely at his hands. “Well...” he mumbles, “all the other kids’ll get presents.” He can’t meet Ron’s eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we'll spend our Christmas playing wizard chess

**Author's Note:**

> While I, as a rule, prefer books to movies, the Christmas present scene in Sorcerer's Stone is one of the few exceptions. Rupert Grint's soft, happy, reassuring "yeah" is a million times better than Rowling's "what did you expect, turnips?"

Ron’s favorite part of Christmas break is the late nights spent perched on the edge of his bed, legs folded up under him (so that no one can see his bare ankles), sharing stories with Harry. They’ve known each other three months now, spent nearly every waking moment together in those three months. And yet there’s still so much about themselves they don’t know, simply because they haven’t had the time to share it.

It’s late one night, moonlight trickling through the curtains of their beds, when Harry confesses that even though the feast sounds nice, he’s really not looking forward to Christmas. “What kid doesn’t like Christmas?” Ron asks.

Harry fidgets with his blankets, stares resolutely at his hands. “Well...” he mumbles, “all the other kids’ll get presents.” He can’t meet Ron’s eye, Ron whose eyes light up as he talks about Christmas mornings with his family, Ron, whose parents haven’t got much but make sure to have a pile of presents under the tree for each kid while Harry... Harry’s got all the money he could ever need in a bank vault twenty stories under London, Harry is at Hogwarts, a place far more wonderful than anything he could have ever hoped to dream up, Harry’s got robes and books and a cauldron that are all his own, brand new and everything, what does he have to complain about?

Ron smiles, more a twist of his lips than an actual smile. He’d known Harry’s life with the muggles was pretty terrible, but no presents on Christmas, “I’m sure you’ll get _something_ ,” he reassures.

The next morning, Ron is up early, scribbling out a quick letter ( _Dear mum, how’s Romania? Tell Charlie “hullo” for me. Everything is good here. My friend Harry said he doesn’t think he’ll get presents, can you send a little something for him? Thanks. Love, Ron_ ) and checking out an owl from the owlery. It’s the twenty-first and Ron watches as the tawny owl flies out of view, he only hopes mum will get the letter.

When Molly gets the letter, bites her bottom lip. “Now that won’t do,” she mutters to herself. Arthur glances at her over his copy of _the Prophet_ , hums out a question. Too distracted to reply, Molly apparates home, grabs a fistfull of needles and tears through her stash of yarn (”a nice lovely blue, perhaps, and, yes, golden yellow, that will do quite nicely,” she murmurs).

Barely a moment has passed before she’s back in Charlie’s little house. The owl that had been perching on the arm of her chair startles and flaps its wings at her, clicks its beak disapprovingly. “I don’t suppose you would like to rest a few hours before you head back?” she asks the owl. “We’ve got some leftover bacon on the counter.” The owl hoots and flutters into the kitchen.

Satisfied, she goes about enchanting her needles, four sets happily clicking away as she pours a dish of water for the owl. “Molly, dear,” Arthur says, “I thought you said you’d finished the childrens’ sweaters?”

“Yes, of course,” Molly says, “the boys’ are already at the school, this one’s for Harry.” (Ginny lets out something like a squeak, Charlie snickers.)

Five-ish hours of intense spellwork later, Molly sends off the well-fed owl with an appropriately lumpy package. “Do try to get it there on time,” she pleads before collapsing into bed.

Meanwhile at Hogwarts, Ron is still agonizing over what he could possibly do as a present for Harry. It’s not like he has any money, and anyway, he thinks, remembering the handful of galleons Harry’d dug out of his pocket on the train, Harry could just buy whatever things he wanted. He settles for a card. Well, he thinks, at least it’s something. He wishes Dean were here to draw it for him, but supposes there’s even less point to a card that’s been drawn by someone else.

He still can’t believe his luck the next day when Harry’s in the bathroom and Ron manages to convince Percy to charm the card so that his little doodle of Harry on his broom flies around the card (and thankfully Percy was too busy with prefect stuff—whatever that is—to examine the card too closely, so there is also a little Snape bursting into flames on the back of it). Late that night he secretly slips it under the tree before he and Harry head off to bed.

“Come on Harry, wake up!” Ron calls the next morning from the Common Room. Harry runs out the balcony connecting the boys’ and girls’ dormitories. He notices Ron’s sweater (maroon, again), “You’ve got one too,” Ron says.

Harry’s face positively glows. “I’ve got presents?” he says, incredulous and wildly hopeful.

Ron nods. He’d never really thought about it much, how he’s never had to leave his house to find eight people who care about him—even if Fred and George have a funny way of showing it and Percy’s got his nose perpetually stuffed in a book. Ron thinks of Harry living with the muggles, of being treated like a burden and of living in a cupboard until just a few months ago. But now there’s a poorly drawn card, a lumpy package from mum, a package from Hagrid that has a few teeth marks at the corner from Fang, a pristinely wrapped and neatly addressed package from Hermione and another one he doesn’t recognize all under the tree. All for Harry. Ron beams back at him, “Yeah,” he says softly.

Harry races down the stairs, jumps them two at a time. Ron laughs.

“I shouldn’t have eaten so much,” Harry groans, curled up on a couch later that evening. He’s still got his sweater on.

Hedwig is perched on the edge of the table as Ron writes a short letter. “Thanks again for letting me send Hedwig,” he says.

Harry shifts, glances at Ron from over the arm of the couch. “No problem.” He stares at Ron, just unruly black hair and a pair of green eyes peeking out at him. “Tell…” he whispers, he shifts, glances away. “Tell your mum thanks for me.”

 _Dear mum,_ (Ron writes) _Happy Christmas! Thanks for the sweaters. We all wore them today, even Percy. Harry says thanks too. Love, Ron._

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Wizard Chess" by Harry and the Potters


End file.
